out."

"Cotsdean? I don't know the name."

"Don't say nothing, Miss," said Betsy, sinking her voice, "but you take
my word it's money. Money's at the bottom of everything. It's something,
as sure as you're alive, as master has got to pay. I've been a deal with
gentlefolks," added Betsy, "and ne'er a one of them can abide that."

CHAPTER XL.

THE SINNED-AGAINST.

Phoebe's mind was full of many and somewhat agitating thoughts. She went
upstairs with a restless haste, which she would have been the first to
condemn, to the room where the others were congregated, when they had
laid Mr. May on his bed with no small difficulty, and were now
consulting what to do. Ursula had fallen a little from the position of
command she had taken up. To get him to bed, to send for the doctor,
these were evident practical steps to take; but after having done these
she was bewildered and fell back upon her advisers.

"We can't do anything, we can only wait and watch him," Reginald was
saying, as Phoebe, herself unseen, looked in at the anxious party; and
without asking any question she turned and went downstairs again, and
hastily putting on her shawl and hat, went out, shutting the door
softly, and ran home on the shady side of Grange Lane, where nobody
could see her. It was a very quiet road, and she was not disturbed by
any unreasonable alarms. It was still early when she got home, earlier
than usual, and her intention was not to stay there at all, but to go
back again and offer her assistance to Ursula, for whom she had left a
message to this effect. Phoebe was full of genuine regard and
friendliness towards the Mays.

She felt that she had obligations to all of them, to the parson-father
for submitting to her presence, nay, encouraging it, and to Ursula for
receiving her with that affectionate fervour of friendship which had
completely changed the tenor of Phoebe's life at Carlingford. She was
obliged to them, and she knew that she was obliged to them. How
different these three months would have been but for the Parsonage; what
a heavy leaden-coloured existence without variety and without interest
she must have lived; whereas it had gone by like a summer day, full of
real life, of multiplied interests, of everything that it was most
desirable to have. Not at home and in London could she have had the
advantages she had enjoyed here. Phoebe was sensible enough--or perhaps
we might use a less complimentary word--worldly enoug